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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27354517">The Fates vs Zolf Smith</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvara/pseuds/Elvara'>Elvara</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Fates vs Zolf Smith [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Sort Of</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:15:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27354517</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvara/pseuds/Elvara</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There exist the Moirai, the fates who weave the web of Destiny. All lives pass between their fingers and not even a god can change the path they define. The path is set. </p>
<p>And yet, the Moirai are all very frustrated with one Zolf Smith.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Zolf Smith &amp; Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Fates vs Zolf Smith [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032771</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Fates vs Zolf Smith</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Many thanks go to makesometime for mentioning a horror podcast in April that lead me down the Rusty Quill rabbit hole with her. &lt;3</p>
<p>This started as an idle 'What if Zolf and Wilde had met before?', took a left at 'Why was Zolf so grouchy on their first meeting anyway?' and then was hijacked by my abiding love of Soulmate AUs.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There exist the Moirai, the fates who weave the web of Destiny. As Clotho spins the thread of lives of those who walk the many planes, Lachesis measures and Atropos cuts. All lives pass between their fingers and not even a god can change the path they define. The path is set. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And yet, the Moirai are all very frustrated with one Zolf Smith. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It goes like this. Zolf Smith is due to meet one Oscar Wilde. The fates of hundreds of thousands depend upon this meeting. Yet despite the best efforts of the Fates, things keep seeming to go awry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-- </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde catches a glimpse of his reflection in the glass, and nods to himself as he adjusts the sweep of his hair; he always did look good in academic robes. Of course, it’s not exactly the height of fashion, but tonight is about blending in. Having been quietly recruited by Meritocratic intelligence some months ago, this will be the first test of his skill. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s simple enough; he has to meet with a contact and pass on some information. The coded message is folded into a small square of paper in his pocket and he has a rough description of the man he’s due to meet. All he has to do is fake an interest in joining the officer corps of the Meritocratic Navy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He joins the river of other interested students flowing into the hall, taking the opportunity to pass by the refreshment table and avail himself of a glass of wine. There’s a good turnout, though he’s certain a good half of them are here for the promise of free refreshments. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Under the cover of finding a good spot to listen to the talk, he allows his gaze to wander over the various assembled members of the navy. The recruiting commander, an older gentleman in deep discussion with one of the college professors stands near the dais. Alongside, looking as if they are on parade, there are six sailors of assorted rank. His gaze falls on a broad-chested, handsome man with dark hair standing at one end of the line and speaking quietly with a stern looking dwarf. Oscar squints at the insignia on his shoulder. Sub-lieutenant. There’s his man.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The talk itself is rather uninspiring. Who in their right mind would want to be trapped on a leaky boat for months on end in the middle of the ocean? Dreadful weather and risk of death aside, the company is limited and dreary at best - he eyes the dwarf disdainfully. Not to mention, the complete lack of decent drink. He’ll stick with dry land; wining and dining really is more his style.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Afterwards, he schmoozes his way through the crowd, keeping one eye on the contact and the group around him. It’s fun to throw out jibes at particularly irritating classmates (<em>“You know I always wished you would run away to sea.” </em> ) and joking with others. (<em>“Well, I certainly could </em> pull off <em> the uniform, don’t you think?” </em>)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He eventually draws close to the small gaggle around the handsome sailor, pestering him with questions. His back is to him, and Wilde can hear him patiently answering some very dull question with well-rehearsed lines about loyalty and bravery. They’re all well distracted and it’s but the work of a moment to feign a stumble into the man’s back, slipping the note into his very well tailored trousers pocket.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There are a couple of gasps of surprise as he topples to the floor. “You ‘right?” A hand extends down to him. It appears to be attached to the rather stern dwarf. The tall man is looking down too, an amused expression on his face. Oscar notes his hand is already in his pocket. Perfect.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry, forgive me. I appear to have had a little too much wine.” He plays the fool, despite the fact he’s had barely a glass as he takes the hand gratefully, inhaling sharply at the electric shock in his fingers as he does so.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The dwarf looks him over with surprisingly green eyes as he brushes himself down. “Mind how you go.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde nods. “Yes, yes, of course. Perhaps I should turn in.” He turns to apologise once more to the tall sailor. “I am terribly sorry. I hope I didn’t damage your uniform.” He can’t resist the slightly breathless tone to his voice.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The dwarf tuts and rolls his eyes, turning back to some of the students who still have questions. The sailor smiles, eyes sparkling with amusement and claps him on the shoulder. “No harm done, sir, but perhaps lay off the sauce for the evening?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde smiles and makes his excuses, slipping out of the event with a sigh as tension seeps from his shoulders. His fingers still tingle from the static and he wiggles them to regain the feeling. Mission accomplished. He just hopes the dwarf didn’t catch him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clotho, who likes to hum as she weaves, stops abruptly to curse and frown at the weave in front of her. “How did that happen?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What is it?” Lachesis peers at the pattern.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ve dropped a stitch.” She runs a finger over the point where the two threads should have interlocked but have somehow stubbornly veered apart. “The human and the dwarf were supposed to speak here.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“They did!” Lachesis looks closer. “Well, briefly, at least.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes, but it should have been more... impactful.” Clotho looks at the spindle, inspecting the as yet unwoven thread.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Atropos looks puzzled. “That’s never happened before. Can you fix it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clotho bites her lip, studying the weave and the arrayed threads at her fingertips. “Not to worry. They have another opportunity to meet, but it will take a few years. Everything will be fine.” She takes up the shuttle and song once more.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The taverna is dark and crowded. The crew has spilled across several tables along one side of the room, games of dice and cards in full swing and getting rowdier as the beer flows freely. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf loses his hand and curses, throwing his cards to the table. Luck has apparently abandoned him tonight.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Looks like the next round's on you, Smith!” Ruby crows, clapping him on the shoulder. He stands with a grumble and pushes his way through the crowd, unleashing his elbow into a couple of kidneys when patrons fail to notice his presence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He has to jump back as a tall man at the bar reels back with laughter, his peg leg slipping on a wet patch of flagstones. He grabs for the bar with a scowl, heaving himself back to balance with a glared “watch it!” at the idiot, for all the good that does. Some fools just can’t hold their liquor. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The bartender is busy, filling clay cups with the local wine for a crowd of burly men Zolf recognises from a few other ports. Fellow merchant seamen, as it were. They’ve a reputation for starting bar brawl and they’re already telegraphing itchiness for action. He’d rather not be at the end of their fists tonight, so he focuses his attention firmly on the sticky wood of the bar top and waits his turn. He just wants a quiet drink with his crew.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The man to his left, it seems, has not got this memo. He and his friend are apparently talking about the people around them and there’s something about the man’s voice that just cuts through the general hubbub - the accent is English, for a start, and well-educated at that. Bloody idiot was probably from <em> Oxford </em> or some bloody institute like it studying local history and too lacking in common sense to realise a dockside bar was the worst place to taste the local culture. (<em>Toff’s askin’ for a black eye.) </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The barman finally spots him, wiping his hands as he approaches. Zolf’s Greek is several hundred years out of date but it seems to serve him well enough for ordering drinks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What about <em> that </em>one?” The friend laughs the laugh of a man who has been drinking continuously for hours and believes himself to be being subtle. He doesn’t notice the pirates looking at him with narrowed eyes. Probably thinks that no one else in the room speaks English. Bloody stupid assumption given this taverna is full of sailors.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The tall man lifts his head to peer rather obviously at the burliest of the pirates at the end of the bar. (<em>Do neither of these men understand the meaning of tact?). </em>He tuts and rolls his eyes. “I suppose, he’s really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts one's eyes, and does not look at him.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf closes his own eyes with a wince, and shifts slightly more to his right, trying to project the sense of being not with the pair. The bartender had better hurry up with his order.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He studiously ignores the sounds which suddenly seem to cut through the hush of the bar. The scraping of chair legs on stone. Slow, careful footsteps coming closer. The slam of a meaty hand on a wooden surface. The excellent enunciation of words in English. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Would you like to repeat that, <em> sir</em>?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A pause. An indrawn breath.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The sound of a haughty voice that had definitely drunk too much to have sense. “I <em> said </em>, ‘you’re not so ugly after all, provided that I shut my eyes, and don’t have to look at you.’”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s an unpleasant crunch of flesh hitting bone, a pained grunt and the sound of someone slumping to the floor.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wilde!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The noise of the bar starts up again, patrons ignoring the human who is now crumpled on the floor by Zolf’s chair, bleeding from his nose. The friend is crouched beside him, shaking his shoulder. “Oscar. Oscar!” He’ll only make his friend's injuries worse if he continues that. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>With a put-upon sigh, Zolf slips off his chair and firmly maneuvers the panicked man by the shoulder. “Leave it. You’ll make it worse.” He kneels at the dark haired man’s side, grabs the dolphin at his neck and mutters the spell. A faint glow passes over his face, knitting the skin together, forcing the bruises to recede. Pale blue eyes blink at him. “Have we met….?” The words slur together, whether from the punch or the drink, it’s unclear.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oscar!” The friend sounds delighted and shoves Zolf aside to help the still dizzy man up. Zolf rolls his eyes and stands to collect his drinks, dropping the gold on the bar. The bartender gives him a grateful nod.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You two should stop drinkin’ and go home before someone else knocks you out. I ain’t healin’ you again.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The one who is apparently named Oscar nods slowly, his senses not entirely back to him yet. “Thank you, Mr…?” Gods, he reminds him of some of the worst officers he’d served under - too much money and no common sense.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Go. Home.” Zolf glares at him, and stomps off. Bloody idiots had no business being in this kind of bar. He’d thought he’d been rid of that after the navy. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It's not long after that a good bottle of whisky arrives at his table, causing his crewmates to cheer. Zolf examines the label with a raised eyebrow before scanning the room, failing to find the man. Well, idiot or not, he at least knows quality.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s happened again!” Clotho glares at the offending threads.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“The same two?” Lachesis traces their threads with her fingers. “This isn’t normal. Someone must be interfering with them.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Atropos leans in to sniff deeply at the canvas. Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “Seawater. This is <em> Poseidon’s </em>doing. The dwarf is his cleric, after all.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Zolf.” Lachesis corrects, helpfully. “His name is Zolf.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ignoring her middle sister, Clotho glares. “He is <em> not </em> to interfere. Our plan is above the gods.” Her fingers move nimbly as she rearranges the threads. “He will not stop us.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Security duty for private events is never the most exciting job but this one is at least paying well. Having Haringay as a contact is proving extremely lucrative.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Still, it's bloody cold and Zolf is regretting his choice to put Figgis on the door where there's at least a doorway to shelter under. He stamps his foot, wiggling his toes in his boot. Every so often he hears laughter spilling from the front of the building as guests make their way inside. He's watched a steady stream of carriages pass by his spot, filled with rich folks dressed in thick furs. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gods, it's cold. He almost wishes there'd be some drama so he could have a bit of a fight to keep himself warm. Probably too early in the evening for that though; even the great and the good take time to get drunk enough for that. He wishes he'd had the foresight to bring a nip of whisky in a flask.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He hears disgruntled murmuring from the main door and pokes his head round the corner to assess the situation. Figgis is glaring at a tall, dark haired young man in a ridiculous fur coat, shooing him away. Zolf steps back to his post. Some social climber trying his luck, no doubt. There are always a few trying to con their way in to rub shoulders with the rich.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He stamps his way down the alley to check on his people guarding the rear of the house. Silas gives him a stoic nod. “All clear, boss.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf resumes pacing, once more trying to coax the blood to flow a bit more freely in his foot and trying to ignore the ache in his knee. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You must be freezing to death out here.” A friendly voice calls out. He turns, seeing the silhouette of the fur-coated man in the alley mouth. “Boss took the cosy part of the job, I suppose?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf steps closer, narrowing his eyes at the man. He’s young and lean, with smooth cheeks that make Zolf wonder vaguely if he can even grow a beard. There’s something familiar about him, but he can’t place it. “What do you want?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The man shrugs, all practiced insouciance in almost scandalously well-tailored trousers. “Can’t a man make a little conversation?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf scowls. “Sounds to me like you’re after somethin’.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Straight to the point.” The man smiles, wide and easy. “Normally I like a little foreplay but I can work with this.” He gives Zolf a long, slow once over; blue eyes flickering over his peg leg and the trident in one hand. Zolf’s fingers tighten around the haft.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I ain’t interested in what you’re sellin’. Get lost.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The man raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s disappointing but I’m sure we can come to some other arrangement. I would like to get into this party, but unfortunately your boss seems very intent on sticking to his little list. Since I’m sure you can’t be paid nearly enough to freeze your unmentionables off in this weather, perhaps you’d be interested in making a little coin on the side?” He draws a gloved hand from his pocket, holding a leather pouch that clinks invitingly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It comes to him then and he snaps his fingers. “I know you. You’re that journalist. White or Wise or something.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The man sneers. “It’s Wilde, actually.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don’t care. You ain’t getting in.” Zolf holds his trident wide to bar the entrance to the alley. “Not worth my reputation to let the press into this event.” He sets his stance carefully, eyeing the man's movements very carefully.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde rolls his eyes. “As if you have a reputation worth anything.” He starts to hum idly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf smirks. “Good enough at security to know you don’t put the boss on the door.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde’s eyes widen for a moment and he opens his mouth to - sing? Surely not - but Zolf is quicker, the haft of the trident swung hard into the taller man’s knees, which buckle and bring him hard to the ground. He grunts as the wind is knocked out of him and Zolf whistles loudly before jamming the blunt end of the trident hard into the man’s diaphragm. Wilde groans in pain as two of his crew melt out of the shadows on the opposite side of the street and come to his aid.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Clear him out of here. Haringay will toss him in a cell for the night.” The taller woman nods and hauls Wilde up while the shorter shackles him. The man is still wheezing as they drag him away. Zolf watches until they turn the corner before scanning back up and down the street. Well, that was a bit of unexpected fun, he’d even forgotten he was cold for a moment. Perhaps he’d be lucky and some more would try their luck later.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He <em> cannot </em> be this obtuse.” Lachesis grumbles, absently measuring out the lives of less interesting mortals as she stares intently at the glimmering thread that is Zolf Smith.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s not as if Wilde is exactly forgettable.” Atropos agrees, following his thread as he appears to be winning over ambassadors at a diplomatic event some days later. “What makes Zolf so immune to his charms?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It <em> must </em> be Poseidon.” Clotho mutters, reeling out more threads. “But we can handle his tricks.” She pauses briefly over a golden strand of a particular dimwitted noble. “Perhaps we can entangle the two together by proxy. I have an idea.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Getting into the flat is <em> trivially </em> easy. For the son of a banker, Mr al Tahan does not seem to have a particularly high sense of personal security. Oscar isn’t sure that this bodes particularly well for this set of mercenaries to complete the task that’s been given to them, but he has to work with what he’s been given. The leader of the little band, Mr Smith, has apparently been doing this sort of work for some time and the girl is a product of Other London, so he hopes they won’t be a complete loss.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He makes the most of that fact that the flat is empty, poking around to see what else he can learn about Hamid. The dossiers he’s read only go so far; early years in Cairo, boarding school in England and then thrown out of Cambridge in disgrace. Nothing particularly special.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hamid’s home is rather as he expected; elegantly furnished and expensive if somewhat… unoriginal. It reminds him of a dozen other homes of the wealthy across London, even down to the same rather conventional novels which are considered the height of literary art on the bookshelves. There’s nothing risky, nothing unique. Oscar hums to himself as he peruses some of the titles. Honestly, he’s written better things than half this lot and that’s just his <em> cover. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>He has better luck when he discovers the liquor cabinet, confirming all stereotypes of halflings' love of epicurean delights. Varied, expensive and numerous, he helps himself to a particularly fine brandy and swirls it idly in its glass as he continues to investigate.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the master bedroom, with its particularly high thread count sheets (<em>Mr al Tahan, you </em> do <em> enjoy the finer things in life</em>), Wilde discovers a journal in a bedside table. He flicks through it with amusement to find some musings on what it means to be Good that he suspects the writer must think are deep and some truly awful poetry. He tosses it back in the drawer and returns to the living room, settling himself into the best chair as he considers the best way to approach the upcoming meeting. He <em> really </em> hopes Mr Smith and Ms Rackett are a little more impressive.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When his notebook erupts in a spark of flame and he’s shortly after threatened with a trident, he catches a familiar smirk on the dwarf’s face and suddenly recalls an encounter in a cold alley where he met the blunt end of said trident. Well then, between that and the knife at his throat, it seems there’s hope for them after all. And if the memory of a night spent bruised in an uncomfortable cell ensures that there’s perhaps a little more pointed needling than necessary, well he thinks that’s only fair.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s in the middle of Bertie’s flirtation with the rude journalist that Zolf remembers where he’s seen him before. The memory of a rich man in a fur coat taunting a freezing guard as if he were some play-thing burns angrily in his chest as the conversation continues. Zolf despises him; his arrogance, his stupid suit and his <em> terrible </em>taste in men.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s so easy then to threaten to drown him, even easier to follow through on his instinct to headbutt the man. Bertie’s punch may send him reeling but there’s an immense satisfaction at seeing Wilde dab blood away from his irritatingly handsome face that makes it worth it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“"He's your <em> destiny </em> , Zolf! You can't just <em> headbutt </em> him!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s silence in the room where the fates weave history. The three sisters stare at the tapestry in the centre of the room.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Can’t say I blame him though.” Atropos mutters. “Also, Clotho, what were you thinking? <em> Sir Bertrand MacGuffingham</em>?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Their paths are intertwined now though, aren’t they?!” Clotho shoots back, indignant. “I had to do <em> something.</em>” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I give up.” Atropos rolls her eyes. “I don’t see how this can be salvaged now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not so sure about that.” Lachesis gives a slow smile. “He <em> did </em> say Wilde had a nice bum. If he hated him so much, why was he looking?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A day or two out of Prague, Zolf finds himself at a corner table of a tiny inn, fire burning merrily in the grate beside him. There are letters in front of him to his friends.<em> (Were they friends?) </em>The ink is smudged and crossed out fiercely and one piece is slowly soaking up a patch of spilled ale.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He sighs, casting around the bar to distract himself and freezes, a jolt of recognition in his chest at the sight of a tall figure with dark wavy hair standing near the bar.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wil-” He's already halfway to standing when the man turns and is decidedly <em> not </em> Wilde. There’s a scrubby beard and really they’re not at all alike and he wonders why he'd been so certain for a moment. He swallows and takes a long drink to relieve the tight feeling in his belly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For a moment he pictures Wilde as he saw him in Paris, still not fully recovered from the poison but determined to get them to Prague. Perhaps he should have left him some word that he was moving on. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He stares blankly at the awkward letters, wonders what his friends are doing now. No. No good will come of that. He crumples up the parchment and throws it on the fire. Time to move on.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde arrives to chaos in Prague. When he finally checks in at the Meritocratic office, he learns that not only is Bertie somehow <em> dead</em>, but it seems Zolf has left and transferred leadership to <em> Hamid</em>. The halfling is charismatic enough but he's not sure he has the resilience to lead on this mission. He swears and wonders if he could track the dwarf down and convince him to return.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Except it seems that the city has been overrun with zombies and a rogue Harlequin necromancer and there are bigger problems for him to handle than one runaway dwarf. First he needs to make sure the rest of the group don't fall apart and see if this <em> goblin </em> they've been running around with is going to prove themselves to be useful.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Later. He'll find him later.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There's a clatter as Clotho throws her shuttle across the room. “<em>How is he leaving?!” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Atropos picks it up, setting it gently on the table next to where her sister has her head buried in her arms. “Poseidon again, maybe? Zolf seems to be struggling with him.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It took us so long to get their paths to stick together and now he's just <em> giving up</em>.” Clotho glowers at the threads with such venom that Atropos checks her scissors are well out of reach.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wait, look.” Lachesis is leaning in close to the tapestry, fingers lightly tracing Wilde's path. “The threads between them - they're diverging, they're not broken. I think we're still on track.” She smiles and peers ahead at the future. “There's still hope.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The inn he's been directed to is a ramshackle place on the coast, all peeling paint and ill-fitting windows that whistle in the wind. A far cry from that flat Hamid had in London or La Triomphe. The room the innkeeper directs him to is at the end of a narrow hall with a floor that slopes alarmingly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He raps on the door and waits, shifting uneasily. Who knows how he'll be greeted this time. When it creaks open, Wilde blinks at the familiar yet different dwarf in front of him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf's eyebrows furrow as he recognises him. “Wilde.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Zolf.” He doesn't fidget as Zolf gives him a long hard stare.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You look like shit.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde snorts, unable to help himself as he gestures at Zolf's hair which is apparently <em> white </em> now and the circles under his eyes. “Speak for yourself.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf huffs, lips quirked in a small smile. “That's fair.” He stands aside in invitation and gestures to a half empty bottle of whisky on the side table. “Drink?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Gods, yes please.” Wilde shuts the door beside him, cataloguing the room in a glance. Plain, simple furnishings, a single bed with threadbare blanket, rag rug on the floor, Zolf's pack leaning on the wall. There's a romance novel on the table and he itches to pick it up and investigate, learn more about the former sailor.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf presses the glass into his hand and gestures to the chair. “Might as well take a seat.” He settles himself onto the bed with a soft grunt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde sits, takes a drink and then drums his fingers on his glass, suddenly unsure of where to begin. “It's good to see you, Zolf.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Guess I needn't be surprised you found me. You always did have the knack.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Curie told me where you’d be.” Wilde murmurs absently, turning the words over in his mind. “You know, I never was certain if you remembered our previous meetings.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’d be a poor mercenary if I didn’t remember con artists who tried to bribe their way past security.” Zolf smirks to himself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde narrows his eyes. “Yes, I believe I still owe you for that trident to the kidneys.” He glances around the room. “I was half expecting to be threatened with it today.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf shifts uncomfortably and nods to the glaive standing in one corner. “Well, things change. I don’t serve Poseidon no more.” He takes a swig of his own drink and mulls his words for a moment. “Besides, I- it's good to see you too.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde affects a dramatic hand to his chest, covering for the genuine warmth the words surge in his chest. “Why Zolf, you've gone soft in your old age.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He grumbles his irritation then gives him a sharp look. “Hang on, you said <em> meetings. </em> I wouldn’t have thought you’d remember the other one, given how pissed you were.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde laughs, “Zolf, I assure you that was <em> entirely </em> an act.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Bloody wasn't. You got knocked out!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I did not!” Wilde frowns. “Wait. What are you talking about?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf looks at him like he's mad, and speaks slowly as he explains, which <em> really </em>is rather insulting. "Greece. I dunno, 5 years back? Really grotty dockside dive?" His confusion must be evident on his face because Zolf stares at him. "I thought you said you remembered."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I <em> was </em>in Greece around that time. Meritocratic mission. But-” He trails off, thinking. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“There I was, mindin' my own business, but there's some rich idiot-” Here he throws Wilde a look. “- talking too loudly, and too <em> rudely </em> in the bar about the meanest lookin' bastards in there.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>“Oh</em>.” Wilde makes a noise of recognition. “Were you the cleric who healed me?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Aye.” Zolf's voice is gruff, with perhaps a touch of embarrassment. “Thanks for that whisky, by the way.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde shakes his head, wonderingly. “Did you know this when we first met? The, uh, first time with the rangers, I mean.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf shakes his head. “No. Halfway through your flirtin' with Bertie, I realised you were the one I'd thrown in a cell. But it was Paris, I think, when I remembered you in Greece. I was trying to wake you up after the poison and it seemed… familiar.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Small world.” Wilde murmurs to himself. “Well, I suppose I must thank you for your previous aid.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf shrugs. “Didn't fancy bein’ in the middle of a brawl.” He frowns again. “But you don't remember that one.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not at all. As you say, I was… rather drunk. Got myself temporarily suspended from Oxford for that little trip, actually.” He laughs to himself. “No, I was thinking of something even earlier. Tell me, did you ever do naval recruitment events at Oxford?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf cocks his head. “Was assigned that once, did a string of boring talks to rich kids.” Wilde smirks, wiggles his fingers in a wave. “You were there?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde shrugs, “My first test as a Meritocratic agent was to slip some information to one of the sailors at the event. Something made me think of it before I came to Paris. When I looked up who the speakers were, I had a surprise.” He grins, “I found a way to trip into my target, and you, Zolf Smith, helped me up.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Tripped.” Zolf sounds unimpressed. “Flirtin’, were you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, Zolf.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The eyebrow raised in his direction is full of judgement. “Except when you write an exposé and publish it in major newspapers across Europe?” He waves a hand to silence Wilde’s protests, thinking hard. “There were a lot of people at those events. I don’t remember you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde pouts slightly, feigning hurt. “Am I not memorable enough?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf rolls his eyes at that. “Hard to forget that suit you wore when we met with the others.” He drums his fingers on his knee. “So that’s what, three first meetings?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Four.” Wilde takes a sip of his whisky. “One would almost think the Fates have a plan for you and I, Mr Smith.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf frowns, casting a glance at the glaive in the corner. “I don’t believe in fate.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilde hums his agreement. “What I do believe is that you and I make good allies, at least. And I need a man I can trust.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And that’s me?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And that’s you.” For a moment, Wilde is completely guileless.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zolf gives Wilde a long look, before draining his glass and nodding. “Right then. What’s the plan?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> “I don’t believe in fate.” </em> Atropos affects Zolf’s tones before scoffing, “Rude.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But look, we did it!” Clotho crows gleefully, gesturing to the two glimmering threads that are now firmly intertwined in the pattern. “That one isn’t going to break so easily. Take <em> that </em> Poseidon.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Atropos traces it gently. “I wonder how much he really had to do with it. What if Zolf was able to avoid us by his lack of belief?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clotho shrugs. “Plenty of others haven’t believed and we could guide them just fine. I think he’s just… stubborn. Still, now they’re in place to do what we need them to. We shouldn’t need to worry about them.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But we can still check in, right?” Lachesis pops an olive in her mouth as she gazes across the tapestry. “Because I’ll tell you one thing; talk about a bloody slow burn.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Oscar's bar-room insult is paraphrased from 'A House of Pomegranates'.</p>
<p>According to Wikipedia, Oscar Wilde really was temporarily expelled from Oxford for a term after he returned late to the start of term from a trip to Greece.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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